


red pleather skirt

by direwolfjon



Series: take this longing [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Mild Smut, a little dark, but the ending is hopeful, troubled characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 15:31:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20817476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/direwolfjon/pseuds/direwolfjon
Summary: If anyone ever asked him how this happened, Jon is sure he’d blame that red pleather skirt.





	red pleather skirt

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how to explain this one.
> 
> I was going through my google docs and found one which only had the single sentence from the summary in it. I'm not sure what I'd been planning to do with it, but this is what came out today :D

If anyone ever asked him how this happened, Jon is sure he’d blame that red pleather skirt.

That skirt is currently riding up Sansa’s thighs where they are wrapped around his hips, ankles locked together right above his ass as he's rocking into her, burying himself deeper into her slick, tight heat. 

Her panties are in the back pocket of his jeans, where they'll stay, so he can take them home and remember that this was not a dream. It's real, it's happening, but it won't happen again, so he wants to have something to remember it by, and cherish it.

If he had any say in it, he wouldn't be fucking her in a dark alley behind a pub, but it's what she wants from him, so he won't refuse her. 

She throws her head back, exposing the curve of her white throat, and he takes the invitation, closing his mouth over the soft skin there to suck and leave a mark.

She moans and pulls on his hair. "More, Jon," she begs him. "Harder, please."

He hauls her up higher, pushing her against the wall behind her, and grips her hips more tightly.

He can't believe this is happening. It's not that he hasn't imagined it a thousand times before, but he always assumed this secret desire of him would remain confined to the realm of daydreams and morning shower fantasies.

Sansa used to be a good girl. Sundresses and ballet flats, pastels and pink lipstick, colour-coded notes and top grades, that used to be Sansa. 

As a teenager, more than once, he'd scoffed or even occasionally mocked her behind her back with Pyp, Val, Ygritte and Grenn .

The girls, even Sansa's own sister Arya, knew they could never be like her, and even if they didn't want to be, deep down they knew, the world would always prefer girls like Sansa.

For the guys it was different. Even if they didn't want her, they knew they could never have her, and though it didn't make them hate her, it made them feel better to call her silly and stuck-up, just like the girls.

Jon would never start these conversations or be the first to offer a snide remark, but he never disagreed, not until he was a little older. It was easier to pretend he didn't wish he was more like her. It made his life simpler to tell himself he didn't want her.

But he did. It was alright though, he'd admire her from afar and hide his crush from the rest of the world. Sansa was a good girl, too good for the likes of him, he wouldn't ruin her.

But tonight, when she'd walked into the pub in that red pleather skirt, skin-tight black top and scuffed black boots, face adorned with heavy eyeliner and dark lipstick, Jon had known.

Some eyes had narrowed in suspicion at her entrance, there had been some whistling and leering looks, and some had even expressed their admiration at her unexpected transformation, but Jon had known.

It had been five years since he'd last seen Sansa Stark, and Jon knew the good girl was gone. The world had ruined her. It made him sad, and eager for another drink, but it also thrilled him. And then their eyes met.

She didn't smile, but something in her face changed, as if a spark had been lit behind her tired eyes. She crossed the space between them, stepping right into the spot between his legs where he was sat on the bar stool.

"San-- he started to say, shifting in his seat, but she put a finger over his lips. As he glanced down he could see her black nail polish was chipped.

"Call me Alayne," she murmured.

She removed her finger from his lips and started running her hands down his arms, sending hot shivers down his spine. He licked his lips. "Alayne."

She gave him a tight smile, sqeezings his shoulders and then his biceps. "You look good, Jon," she told him. "The beard and the hair," she added, shamelessly studying his face. "And your arms. I like a man with strong arms."

She arched an eyebrow, and his mouth went dry.

"And those big hands," she purred. 

He licked his lips again and gulped. "Um, thanks?"

She laced their fingers together and leaned in to whisper in his ear. "Buy me a drink and perhaps I'll let you put those big hands on me."

After a couple of drinks, she made it clear she'd let him do more than just that, and now they're here, sweating and rutting like animals in a dark and dirty back alley.

"Fuck," she moans. "Fuck me!"

"I am," he says stupidly, just so she'll keep talking. When she's talking he can pretend this means more to her than it actually does.

"Gods, yes," she laughs, her voice dissolving into a whimper. "I should have let you do that earlier."

He shifts her weight so he can slip a hand between their bodies to find her clit. "Too late for that," he grunts into her neck. "But you _could _let me do it again sometime."

She pulls his head back by his curls to search his face, stilling him, and her gaze finds his. She stares at him with dark, hazy eyes and nods. "Perhaps I will."

He resumes his thrusts and starts rubbing her clit in tight circles. It doesn't take long for her to reach her climax, and he follows her soon after.

He puts her down, more gently than he has been with her all night. He turns away to give her some privacy as he tucks himself back into his jeans. 

"Where are you staying?" he asks without facing her. 

"That's none of your business."

He smiles at her haughty tone, it reminds him of the old Sansa.

"You think I'm about to let you walk back wherever it is all alone, in the dark?" he counters, turning around to find her leaning back against the wall, arms crossed over her chest.

She glares back at him. "I promise it's not far, just around the corner."

He meets her glare with his own, and narrows his eyes. "You don't have a place to stay."

She shrugs, looking down as she kicks at thin air with one foot. "I can sleep in my car."

"No, you can't." He shakes his head. "I have a spare room."

She glances up at him, as skittish as a wounded animal. She licks her lips, staring down at her boots again. 

His hands clench into fists as he waits for her answer. He has to bite his tongue to keep himself from saying more to convince her. He'll only scare her away.

"Okay," she says eventually, nodding.

He purses his lips to hide his smile. "Okay," he repeats.


End file.
